Edward Lee - The Black Train

He winced until the dirty image was gone.

When he looked again, the woman was on her tiptoes, a great big white dental-bleached smile. She was waving at him.

“Pardon me, pardon me,” she was saying.

“Yes?”

“You’re Justin Collier, aren’t you?”

Collier tried not to sigh. “Why, yes.”

“Oh, we’re big fans! Look, honey, it’s the Prince of Beer!”

The husband waved, too. “Love your show, Mr. Collier.”

“Thanks.”

The wife: “Could we get your autograph?”

He could’ve groaned. “It would be my pleasure—” But then the vestibule doors opened, and in trod Lottie with his suitcase and laptop bag. Off the hook for the moment, Collier thought. “But let me catch you later today. I’m just now checking in.”

“Of course,” the giddy woman said. “Nice meeting you!”

“Last room on the stair hall, Mr. Collier,” the old lady added.

A fake smile; then he rushed to Lottie.

“Here, let me take one,” he said, but she just grinned and shook her head no.

The old lady’s right, she’s strong as a mule. She effortlessly hauled the cumbersome bags up the staircase. Lean legs took the steps two at a time. Collier wasn’t sure why at first—he deliberately lagged several stairs behind her—but then…

More pervert instinct, he assumed.

He was trying to look up her denim skirt. For only a second he caught white panties bunched up the crack of a delectable little rump.

What is WITH me today?

Maroon carpet took them down the main stair hall; over the rail Collier could hear Mrs. Butler’s jack-jawing with the Wisconsin couple. He fought the urge to look down, hoping for a cleavage view of both women but this time he gritted back the impulse. How come I’m suddenly obsessed with sex! he demanded of himself. When no answer came, he took to eyeing Lottie’s rump and the backs of her toned legs. He felt crazed by the imagery, and could imagine no reason why. Even her Achilles tendons and her bare heels seemed enticing, and the drab shanks of hair, the backs of her arms, her fingers wrapped around his suitcase handles seemed inexplicably erotic…

When she stopped and set the cases down, he stalled, then remembered he’d already been given his key. Last room on the stair hall, he’d been told. He put the key in—

Lottie tugged his arm, shaking her head. She pointed to the door she stood beside.

“I thought your mother said last room on the—”

She seemed to lip something he didn’t catch—

A strong male voice intervened, “What my mom meant is the last regular room.” A tall man, thirtyish, stepped up, wearing a confident smile and jeans, work boots, and a T-shirt. “Howdy, Mr. Collier. I’m Helen’s son, Jiff.”

Collier shook a toughened hand. “Hi, Jeff.”

“No, sir, that’s Jiff—you know, like the peanut butter?” The tight T-shirt sculpted a toned upper body; he had a blond buzz cut and similar drawl. “This room here ain’t yours. We don’t rent it out.” He pointed to the next door. “This one’s yours, and it’s our best.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jiff.”

“Lemme take these bags from my little pipe cleaner of a sister, and get’cha set.”

Collier unlocked what was actually the second-to-last door, but he quickly noted that the third door stood more narrowly and sported a plaque, which read ORIGINAL GAST BATH AND WATER CLOSET. “So what’s this here, Jiff?”

Lottie glared as Jiff yanked the cases from her; she may have even mouthed Fucker!

“That room we never renovated ’cos a lot of tourist folks like to see what a real bathroom from the old days looked like. I’ll be happy to show it to ya, and give ya a tour of the whole house when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, I’d like a tour.”

Collier entered his room, and heard Jiff mutter “out’a my way, dopey!” to his sister behind him. They seemed to be fighting over Collier’s attention. “Yes, sir, I seen your show many times,” Jiff assured him. “It’s a real pleasure to have such a famous TV fella staying with us.”

Collier couldn’t have felt less genuine when he replied, “Thanks.”

“You here for anything to do with your TV show?”

“No, Jiff, actually I’m here to finish a book. Besides my Prince of Beer show I also write books about the art and craft of beer—” And then he quickly said, “Ah, perfect,” of an antique scroll-top desk, which sat before a broad window. “I can work on my laptop right there.”

Jiff put the laptop case on the desk. “I hope the room’s to your likin’.”

“It’ll do just fine.” Cozy, Collier thought. Heavy rust-colored carpet wall to wall, and furnishings of the expected post-Colonial bent. The four-poster bed sat unusually high. Gold and maroon wallpaper covered the half-paneled walls. “Oh, and let me check out this view your mother promised.” And he went through a pair of French doors out to an elaborately railed balcony. Jiff stepped out with him.

The second-story view showed him an impressive garden bisected by flagstone trails. “Beautiful garden,” Collier commented. The meld of fragrances reached him on a warm breeze.

Centered in a small cove at the end of the perimeter sat a crude chimney made of flat beige stones piled high and set with mortar. Several ducts seemed to exist in the structure’s body, and then Collier noticed a chained beam hanging on the side, attached to a large version of a fireplace bellows. A separate shed sat beside it all.

“What’s all that there, that chimney-looking thing?”

“Harwood Gast’s personal iron forge,” Jiff replied. “Any rich man had a forge and blacksmith on the property. Lotta tourists and historians come here just to see that one. It’s in perfect condition; only thing new on it is the leather for the bellows.”

This, like some of the artifacts downstairs, fascinated Collier. “And the shed next to it?”

“Fuel house. They used coal or charcoal; couldn’t use regular wood ’cos it wouldn’t get hot enough. One fella ran the whole show, pumpin’ the bellows, turnin’ the ore, then pullin’ out the blooms to knock the iron out of ’em. Tricky process. The smith’d have to shape the iron before it got too cold.” He pointed to a sawn tree stump that housed an anvil. “It was hard work but those fellas could damn near make anything, and they did it all with a hammer and molds.”

The sight made Collier realize how little he knew of the world. “I’d love to see that some time.”

“I’d be happy to show it to ya whenever you like,” Jiff said. Then he pointed beyond. “And there’s the mountain.”

Collier could still see it, even at this distance, its peaks and edges ghosted by mist that looked purple. But past the garden stretched an endless scrubland that wasn’t much for scenery. “How come no one farms all that land out there?”

“Used to be one of the biggest cotton plantations in the South,” Jiff said, “back before the war.”

“World War Two? Or do you mean—”

“The War of Northern Aggression, sir.”

Collier smiled. He struggled with more distraction when Lottie listlessly leaned over the rail and looked down, and was just able to resist overtly looking down the top of her denim frock. “So it’s just wasteland now? Surely it’s been farmed since then.”

“No, sir. Not a square foot.”

“A developer’s sitting on it?”

“No, sir.”

The deflection of the issue intrigued Collier. “Well then why not use all that valuable farmland?”

Lottie looked at him. She slowly shook her head.

“Folks think the land’s cursed is all, Mr. Collier,” Jiff informed. “Lotta old legends and ghost tales ’round here, but don’t pay ’em no mind. Man who used to own that land was Harwood Gast. The cotton his slaves harvested clothed most’a the Confederate army, and the soybeans he grew out there fed it. bet’cha didn’t know they had soybeans back then, did ya?”